


Super Duper Side Effects

by awesomesockes, whumphoarder



Series: Christ, What Now? [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Allergies, Angst, Asthma, Banter, Broken Bones, Coma, Drinking, Drunk Steve Rogers, Fever, Gambling, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Humor, Hurt Bruce Banner, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Steve Rogers, Las Vegas, Paralysis, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Steve Rogers, Science BS, Science Bros, Serious Injuries, Sick Steve Rogers, Side Effects, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomesockes/pseuds/awesomesockes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: The downside of an enhanced metabolism is that it renders most drugs completely ineffective. Captain America accepted this long ago as an occupational hazard. But after Peter sustains a serious injury in the line of duty and the doctors have no way to manage the pain, Steve decides to volunteer as a test subject for Bruce and Tony’s experimental super drug.However, the soldier ends up getting a little more than he bargained for.(Alternative title: Original Drug Tester: Steve Rogers)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [sallyidss](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/) and [xxx-cat-xxx](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

Standing with Steve outside the Medbay window, Bruce watches as the soldier’s eyes drift to Peter. The kid is lying on a hospital bed, sweating and panting as his severely fractured spine slowly knits itself back together. May sits in a chair to the side, eyes wet with unshed tears as she holds Peter’s hand. Tony is sitting on the other side of the bed, hunched forward with his elbows propped on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

“How long has he been like this?” Steve asks grimly.

“Three days,” Bruce replies, keeping his voice low. “Tony pulled up the footage from the Spider-Man suit to show me and”—his voice breaks a bit—“ _God,_ Steve, if you’d heard the ‘crack’ when that asshole blasted him into the wall…”

Steve’s jaw is set in an expression of forced calm. “Do the doctors think there’ll be permanent damage?”

Bruce shakes his head. “With Peter’s healing factor, they’re hopeful. The scans are showing that the spinal damage is repairing itself—should only be two or three more days until he’s healed—but we have no way to sedate him and nothing that comes even close to managing the pain. He burns through morphine so fast it’s basically useless.”

Steve sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I know the feeling.”

“The surgeons had to put screws in to stabilize his spine,” Bruce goes on. “They tried to put him out, but the anesthesia didn’t last. He woke up mid-procedure and…” he trails off, his voice failing him.

“God…” Steve runs a hand over his face, visibly shaken.

Steadying himself with a few deep breaths, Bruce continues, “At least he’s a little more coherent now. For the first twenty-four hours, he wasn’t even recognizing anyone.”

Steve’s gaze shifts down to his feet for a long moment as he seems to be considering something. Finally, he looks back up and locks eyes with Bruce, his voice determined. “I want to resume the SDP trials.”

Bruce thinks back to last autumn, remembering the barrage of unpleasant side effects Steve experienced during his and Tony’s attempts at synthesizing a drug that could work on enhanced metabolisms. The last of the trials had nearly put the supersoldier into cardiac arrest. He sighs. “Steve, we can’t ask you to do that again...”

“But if there’s even a chance we can reduce his pain—”

“No,” Bruce cuts him off. “We discontinued that project for a reason. The benefits didn’t outweigh the risks.”

“Well, times have changed,” Steve argues. “We have an enhanced kid on the team now—I can’t just stand by and watch him have to deal with this kind of pain. Not when you two were so close to coming up with a solution.”

“But even if we start now, it will be _weeks,_ if not _months_ of formulating and testing before we come up with something we could give him,” Bruce points out. “It won’t matter for this time.”

“Then we’ll have it for the next time,” Steve says firmly.

Bruce shifts his gaze back to the kid lying on the bed. May is wiping sweat from his forehead with a cool washcloth as he whimpers quietly in his sleep.

“Please, Bruce,” Steve says sincerely. “I never want to see him in this kind of pain again, and I know you don’t either.”

Bruce sighs deeply. He understands Steve’s helpless feeling—if there was any way he could test the drug himself, he would already be doing it.

“Just let me do this,” Steve begs. “Please.”

After a long moment, Bruce gives a solemn nod. “Alright. Once Peter’s through this, I’ll talk to Tony about reopening the project.”


	2. SDP-400

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first five drug trials of Tony & Bruce's experimental painkiller.

**SDP-407**

Three weeks after Peter is released from Medbay—fully healed—Steve is reclining in a chair in the back corner of Bruce’s lab, which has been sectioned off to create a testing area. Bruce is attaching adhesive heart monitor electrodes and wires to the soldier’s chest under his t-shirt while Tony stands at the workstation, fiddling with the nanotech device they’ll be using to induce pain.

It definitely works—he watched Tony test it out on himself last night and they found it to be _very_ effective. That particular footage has now been permanently erased from FRIDAY’s servers.

“You sure you don’t want one?” Bruce asks, nodding toward the white coat hanging on the hook near the lab’s entrance. “I have an extra.”

“I don’t wear lab coats,” Tony retorts. He wraps the device around Steve’s left bicep and the electrodes automatically position themselves. “They make me look short.”

Steve snorts out a quick laugh, but instantly sobers when Tony shoots him a glare.

Bruce just shrugs. “Alright, but you never know what might spill on you when you’re doing lab work…”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Steve shifts slightly in his seat as the doctor approaches him with a tray containing alcohol wipes, cotton balls, a syringe, and a small glass bottle sporting a bright orange label that reads ‘TOXIC’. “I’m having flashbacks to 1941…” he mutters. “At least the viewing party is smaller this time.”

Tony smirks. “I could make some calls,” he offers. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d be happy to see Captain America in excruciating pain.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Excruciating?”

“No, no, it’s really not that bad,” Bruce quickly assures. “We just needed a more controlled way to induce pain, so we’re going to be using electrical impulses to stimulate the muscles in your arm to contract. That way we can turn it on and off at will.”

Steve shrugs. “Well, I suppose that’s better than breaking fingers…” He bends his slightly stiff pinkie up and down a few times causing Bruce to recall the less sophisticated methods used in the previous trials.

“Yeah, this way it should just feel like a steady muscle cramp,” Bruce says.

“At least until the drug kicks in,” Tony adds, glancing in the direction of the portable defibrillator on the wall. “So let’s hope this fourth formula is the charm.”

“Wait, fourth formula?” Steve questions. “You guys were only on the second when we stopped last time.”

“We had a third that never made it to this stage,” Bruce explains as he slips on a pair of latex gloves. “It was looking promising on all of FRIDAY’s simulations until it hit the three-hour mark. That’s when the computer-generated test subject began bleeding out of every orifice.”

At Steve’s look of horror, Tony clears his throat and quickly claps the scientist on the shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough chit chat, Brucie,” he says briskly. “Let’s get on to the fun part where we zap him with electricity and stab him with needles.”

Bruce rolls his eyes but starts readying a syringe anyway while Tony sets the dial on the device currently strapped to Steve’s upper arm. “Alright, FRIDAY,” Bruce begins, “for the record now, this is our seventh formula adjustment following the previous six lab trials for SDP-4.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “You still haven’t changed the project name?”

Tony scoffs. “What’s wrong with Super Duper Pill?”

“Well, for one, it’s not even a pill…” Steve complains, side-eyeing the needle.

“It will be, eventually,” Bruce replies. “For now we’re just working out the kinks in the formula.”

“Think of it as a Super Duper Painkiller,” Tony throws in. “Which you’ll be very grateful for in a few seconds.” He sets the dial on the nanotech. “Ready?”

At the soldier’s grim nod, Tony pushes the button. Instantly Steve’s lips press into a thin line as the muscles in his left arm visibly clench.

“You feel that?” Tony checks.

“Yep,” Steve grits out. “Definitely feeling that.”

Bruce grabs a Starkpad and pulls up their research folder to take notes. “Can you rate the pain on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the worst?”

“Uh… maybe a six?” Steve says. “It’s somewhere above broken ribs and below a gunshot wound.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right...” Tony mutters, a small shudder going through him. “Now let’s see if this shit works.”

Bruce starts swabbing Steve’s other arm down with alcohol. “Alright, once again, this is SDP-407, beginning with a seven percent solution.” He looks expectantly at Steve, who gives him a tight nod. “Injecting... now.”

The needle goes in and Steve winces slightly as the doctor slowly releases the drug into his vein. “You should start feeling the effects pretty quickly,” Bruce says.

He pulls up a lab stool and sits down beside Steve, Starkpad at the ready. Tony, meanwhile, moves over to the back corner of the lab where the coffeemaker he recently gifted Bruce (who has the sneaking suspicion that it was really more for the engineer than himself) is located, and brews a pot while they wait.

“Bruce, you want any?” Tony calls over when the coffee is ready.

“No thanks,” Bruce says, tapping data into the tablet. “I’m fine.”

Steve glances up. “Um, do you think you could get me some water?” he asks, swallowing hard. “Or, like a soda or something?”

Bruce shakes his head, looking apologetic. “Sorry, but we can’t introduce any additional variables right now. We’ll have to wait a bit.”

“Right, of course.” Steve swallows a few more times as Tony walks back with a steaming mug in hand. “I’m just, uh, not feeling so great…”

Tony frowns, taking a seat near the soldier, who’s looking paler than he was a moment ago. “What kind of ‘not great’?” he asks.

Bruce shifts his attention to their test subject. “Are you lightheaded? Has the pain changed? Is there—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Steve is suddenly leaning over the side of the chair and puking into Tony’s lap.

“Shit!” Tony swears, sliding his chair backwards to get out of the line of fire and in the process slopping some coffee on himself as well. “Ow! Fuck!”

Unfazed, Bruce reaches under the table for a plastic bin and plops it onto Steve’s lap, still tapping notes into the Starkpad. “So, looks like we have nausea…”

Steve answers with another retch, this time into the bin which he is miserably hugging to his chest.

Gazing down at the vomit and coffee soaking through his pants, Tony heaves out a sigh. “Is the drug at least working?”

“Yeah, can you rate the pain now?” Bruce asks.

Head hanging over the bin, Steve shakily holds up seven fingers.

“Guess it’s back to the drawing board,” Tony mutters as he shuffles off to change clothes.

* * *

  **SDP-411**

After declaring SDP-407 a bust, Steve then continued to vomit for three-and-a-half hours. It eventually resulted in Tony and Bruce answering FRIDAY’s ‘Man Down Protocol’ alert to find the soldier passed out on the bathroom floor, bleeding from a cut on his head sustained from smacking the sink on his way down.

(By that point, not even Tony could see the humor in the man’s suffering.)

Four days of intense reformulating and late nights of computer simulated tests later, they reconvene in Bruce’s lab. While they wait for Tony to join them, Bruce hooks Steve up to the monitors.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks, eyeing the soldier’s temple for any scars. “Your head looks like it healed fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, that was gone in a few hours,” Steve says. “I’ve definitely had worse.”

A moment later, Tony walks into the room, now dressed in a long white lab coat with red rubber boots poking out under the hem. At Bruce’s smirk, he grumbles, “Don’t say a word.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Bruce replies innocently.

“It’s a good look for you,” Steve remarks. “Part scientist, part gardener.”

Tony points a finger sternly in the soldier’s direction. “You can shut it, Sir Barfs-A-Lot,” he quips, plopping an empty plastic bin onto Steve’s lap. “And hold this.”

Bruce hands Tony the device, now sporting the label ‘P.A.I.N.’ to hook up to Steve’s arm.

“Pain?” Steve questions.

“Patented Agony Inducing Nanotechnology,” Bruce supplies with a sigh. “Tony’s name, not mine.”

The engineer grins. “It came to me in the shower.” He attaches the device to Steve’s left arm and turns it on. Once more, the muscles tense up and Steve grits his teeth.

“Alright, can you rate the pain?” Bruce asks, grabbing a Starkpad.

Steve blows out a breath. “Probably a six again,” he reports.

Bruce types this in and then sets the tablet down on the small metal table. He pulls on a pair of gloves and readies a syringe. “Alright, this is SDP-411,” he narrates to FRIDAY. “Injecting now.”

For the next twenty minutes, Bruce and Tony monitor the soldier’s condition, checking in periodically to question him about any new symptoms.

“How’s the pain now?” Bruce asks for the third time.

“Uh, maybe a four?” Steve replies. He hugs the bin a little closer to his chest.

Warily, Tony scoots his lab stool back a few feet. “Feeling the urge to reenact The Exorcist?”

Steve blinks up at him. His eyes are looking a bit glassy and he seems to be staring straight through Tony. “Huh?”

(Bruce makes a mental note to ask Peter to give Steve a crash course in pop culture references.)

Tony rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna hurl?” he rephrases.

“Oh,” Steve says, sounding lethargic. “Um, no... don’ think so.”

“Well that’s something at least,” Tony mutters.

Noticing the sweat beading around the soldier’s neck and the flush to his skin, Bruce scoots his own stool closer. “Then what’s going on here?” he asks. “You’re sweating.”

“Huh?” Steve wipes a hand at his brow, looking confused. “Oh. Tha’s weird. Feel… cold,” he says as a shiver runs through him.

Bruce places a hand on Steve’s forehead and frowns when he feels the unnatural warmth. “FRIDAY, can we get a read on his temperature?”

“101.8 degrees Fahrenheit,” FRIDAY informs.

“Well shit,” Tony remarks as Bruce makes a note on the Starkpad.

“Let me know if that elevates significantly,” Bruce requests. He adjusts his glasses and turns his focus back to Steve. “How’s the pain?”

Steve blinks slowly at him. “What pain?”

Tony gets up from his seat and moves over to Steve’s left side. He peers at the P.A.I.N. device. “Is it not working?” he asks, tapping the side of the mechanism.

Glancing down at his arm, Steve’s brow furrows. “Wait, wha’s this?” he asks, moving his hand up to the band on his arm. He twists the dial and instantly jolts, letting out a sharp grunt of pain.

“Don’t do that!” Tony yelps, swatting his hand away. He quickly readjusts the dial.

“Captain Rogers’ temperature is up to 103 now,” FRIDAY reports.

“That is moving awfully fast,” Bruce comments, concern growing. “We’ll need to start taking measures to reduce it if—”

FRIDAY interrupts, “It is now 103.5.”

Tony swears, pressing the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead. “Okay, he really is burning up,” he mutters. “Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to incorporate the antipyretic just yet—seems to be backfiring…”

“Okay new plan,” Bruce decides. “Stop the trial. At the rate his temperature is climbing, we need to lower this ASAP.”

“Yep, agreed.” Tony quickly turns off the device and removes it from Steve’s arm.

“I feel... weird…” Steve murmurs, his head lolling to the side.

“Temperature is now 104.1,” FRIDAY chirps.

“We need to get him into a bath,” Bruce says urgently. He runs a hand through his hair as he frets. “But I don’t want him walking while he’s so out of it and I don’t know how we’re gonna lift him to—”

With his foot, Tony kicks the lever to unlock the wheels under Steve’s chair. “Problem solved,” he says. “Field trip time, let’s roll!”

With FRIDAY still reporting the climbing numbers through her speakers, the two scientists push Steve’s improvised wheelchair out of the lab and down the hall of the compound, Tony’s red rubber boots squeaking as he jogs along.

“Where’s the closest bathtub?” Bruce demands.

“Clint’s room,” Tony grunts. “FRIDAY, start filling the tub. Cold water.”

“No, lukewarm,” Bruce corrects as they race down the corridor. “Otherwise he could go into shock.”

Without bothering to announce their arrival, the three burst into Clint’s room. The archer is sitting on the floor in only his boxer shorts and a single sock, building a massive playing card tower. The gust of wind from the door flying open causes the construction to collapse, sending cards in all directions.

“Jesus! Ever heard of knocking?!” he yelps, jumping up and grabbing a pillow from the bed to hold in front of himself.

“Outta the way, Barton!” Tony orders. “We’ve got an emergency here.”

Bruce and Tony push Steve—who is now babbling incoherently—straight past the flabbergasted archer and towards the ensuite bathroom.

Still holding the pillow, Clint curiously follows them to the entrance of the bathroom. “Did he eat Sam’s five-alarm chili? Because I warned that guy to go easy on the habaneros…”

“He’s got a fever of 104 and climbing,” Bruce quickly explains. The automated jets are rapidly filling the tub with tepid water.

“104.6 now,” FRIDAY corrects, causing Bruce to make a small, horrified sound in the back of his throat.

“What the fuck?” Clint mutters. “I thought he couldn’t even _get_ sick...”

“We’ll explain later, okay?” Tony retorts. “Just help us get his ass in the tub.”

Bruce and Tony each loop an arm around Steve’s elbows and hoist him up out of the chair. Clint grabs his feet and together the three of them haul him into the bathtub, clothes and all.

“105.0,” FRIDAY reports.

“Okay, forget shock,” Bruce decides. “Barton, go get ice—as much as you can find!”

“On it,” Clint replies, racing out of the room.

“Nooo...” Steve moans. “No ice. Can’t go back to the ice…”

“Calm down, Capsicle,” Tony says, grabbing the shower head and turning the temperature all the way to cold. He sprays it over Steve’s head, causing the soldier to sputter. “You’re about two degrees from brain damage.”

“Don’t have any degrees...” Steve groans. “Never went to college...”

“Just make it through this and I’ll pay for Harvard,” Tony quips, still hosing him down.

“Tony, we’re gonna have to get Medical in here,” Bruce says under his breath. “A fever this high is dangerous and I don’t know what else to do...”

Tony’s face blanches. Strictly speaking, SHIELD isn’t aware of any experimental drug trials on their supersoldier. To say there’ll be backlash if Fury gets wind of this is an understatement.

“Has it gone down at all, FRI?” Tony asks, his tone almost pleading.

“Yes, boss. His temperature is now 104.9,” she reports.

Tony gives Bruce a pained smile. “I mean, that’s progress, isn’t it?”

“I’m back, I got the ice!” Clint’s voice calls. A second later, the archer jogs into the bathroom with two large bags of ice. He thrusts one into Tony’s hands and rips the other open, pouring it into the water. Tony does the same with his bag.

“Temperature check?” Bruce asks.

“104.7,” FRIDAY replies.

If the situation weren’t so serious, Bruce thinks, it would be downright comical. Tony and Bruce in their lab coats and Clint in his underwear, all gathered around, anxiously watching a delirious Captain America bathe.

After several minutes, FRIDAY reports, “Captain Rogers’ temperature has dropped to 103.6.”

Steve is more coherent now and starting to shiver, so the three men haul him back out of the tub. Clint tosses over a towel, which they wrap around him before situating him back in the chair and wheeling the dripping wet soldier back to the lab.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Tony says with a sigh. “It’s gonna be a long night…”

* * *

  **SDP-413**

Two days and two formula tweaks later, they’re back at it in Bruce’s lab. This time not only is Steve hooked up to the heart monitor and holding the plastic puke bin, but now a cooler full of ice is standing at the ready and FRIDAY has been instructed to alert them if Steve’s body temperature exceeds 100.5 degrees.

Tony has already hooked up the P.A.I.N. device—they’re back to Steve’s baseline rating of six.

“Alright, this is SDP-413,” Bruce narrates for the AI’s record. He readies the syringe and moves to Steve’s arm. “Injecting now.”

Once more the two scientists sit down on their stools to wait. This time Steve seems to be in a chatty mood.

“So I was reading the newspaper this morning—” he begins.

Tony scoffs. “They still print those?”

Rolling his eyes, the soldier continues, “—and I saw an article about Spider-Man stopping traffic on Grand Central Parkway to help a family of ducks cross the road.”

Tony runs an exasperated hand over his face. “Yeah, we had a nice long talk about risk versus reward after that. Still not sure he’s on board, but I tried.”

“So he’s fully back to the Spider-Manning then?” Steve asks. “No permanent damage from the injury?”

“Oh yeah, he’s been back at it for weeks now,” Tony replies, waving a hand dismissively. “May benched him for the first five days or so after the doctors released him, but he was crawling up the walls the whole time.” There’s a beat. “Literally.”

“His healing factor is truly incredible,” Bruce remarks, a bit of awe in his voice. “I think it even exceeds yours.”

Steve smiles at that. “That’s good—he needs it.”

“Any change in the pain?” Bruce checks.

“It’s actually gone down quite a bit, maybe a three-and-a-half?” Steve reports. He licks his lips. “But my mouth is kinda dry…”

Bruce hums, tapping this into the Starkpad. “Dry mouth could be a side effect.”

Tony chuckles. “Well if all we have so far is dry mouth and a pain reduction of nearly half, I think we might have a winner here,” he says cheerfully.

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times, smacking his lips. “Do you think I could have some water?”

Bruce hesitates. “Can you wait like, half an hour?”

With a small sigh, Steve nods.

The next twenty minutes consist of small talk and a rousing game of Uno—which Bruce wins with a strategic play of draw 4’s, causing Tony to demand a rematch—before Steve announces a shocking development:

“You know, I think the pain is actually gone now.”

Bruce lowers his hand of cards. “What do you mean?” he asks, reaching for the Starkpad again. “Like it’s down to a one? A two?”

“No, I mean it’s a _zero_ ,” Steve clarifies.

Frowning, Tony puts his cards down as well and leans closer to examine the P.A.I.N. device. “The electrodes are still firing…” he mutters, poking at the mechanism.

A grin is slowly spreading across Steve’s face. “But it doesn’t hurt anymore. The pain is completely _gone_.”

“So, wait…” Bruce’s head is swimming; never in his wildest dreams did he think they’d come up with something that could eliminate pain altogether. He checks the heart monitor and sees the readings are all within normal range. “What else are you feeling? Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Chilled? Anything?”

Steve licks his lips again. “Mouth is still dry, but otherwise, I feel fine.”

Tony blows out a long breath. “Well I’ll be damned. We did it.”

Bruce’s eyes widen and he exchanges a look of awe with his lab partner. “Does this mean…?”

“...That it’s time to celebrate?” Tony finishes, his eyes sparkling. He wheels his stool backwards over to the cooler and opens it. Pulling out a rare-looking champagne bottle, he pops the cork.

Bruce blinks at him. “Okay, one, that ice was supposed to be for emergencies, and two, why do you have alcohol in my lab?”

“I had a really good feeling about this trial,” Tony says as he proceeds to pull a cardboard box out from under the desk. He removes two crystal champagne glasses before glancing guiltily at their test subject. “Sorry, Cap. I’d offer you some, but you don’t want to mix your experimental drugs with liquor.” He gives a small shudder. “Been there, done that.”

“Honestly, I’d be happy with water,” Steve rasps.

“It’s probably been long enough now,” Bruce gives in. “Tony, you wanna get him some water?”

“Yeah, alright,” Tony agrees. He takes out the remaining glass and fills it at the lab’s water cooler before placing it in Steve’s right hand.

“To SDP-413!” Tony declares. He and Bruce both clink their glasses to Steve’s, but the second they pull away, Steve’s glass slips from his hand.

“Shit!” Tony swears as the glass shatters on the lab floor.

“I’m so sorry, it just slipped!” Steve apologizes quickly. “I’ll clean it up, and pay you back, just—”

“Forget it, it’s fine,” Tony dismisses. “No big deal.”

(Well, Bruce thinks, there goes one of the four remaining crystal glasses from fourteenth-century Bohemian King Charles IV.)

“No, no I’ll clean it up,” Steve insists. “I’ll just go get a broom and...” he trails off, looking puzzled. “Oh that’s a problem,” he mutters.

“What?” Bruce asks.

“I can’t feel anything.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we know, hence the Dom Perignon.” He raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“No, no you don’t understand,” Steve says, his eyes widening. “I mean I can’t feel _anything_. I can’t move my legs.”

Reaching out a hand, Tony pinches Steve’s left thigh, hard. The soldier only shakes his head, looking worried.

Frowning, Bruce pulls a pen out of his chest pocket and clicks it open. He presses the point to Steve’s calf. “You feel that?”

Steve shakes his head, looking even more concerned. “Nothing.”

His frown deepening, Bruce removes Steve’s right shoe and sock before pressing the pen tip to his toe. “Anything?”

“Nothing,” Steve replies, his face draining of color. “And I can’t move my arm now either.”

Taking Steve’s wrist, Tony lifts one of the soldier’s arms up about a foot in the air and releases it. The arm flops back down onto the armrest like an overcooked noodle.

Turning his head to stare at Tony, Bruce whispers in horror, “Did we just paralyze Captain America?”

Under his breath, Tony mutters, “Fury is gonna kill us.”

**X**

It’s now been two hours of monitoring Steve and he still hasn’t moved a muscle from the neck down. Bruce and Tony are standing in the hallway just outside the lab, talking in hushed tones.

“So… at what point are we calling Medical?” Bruce asks.

Tony winces. “How about never?”

“ _Tony,_ ” Bruce sighs exasperatedly. “This is getting serious. If this goes on much longer, we’re gonna have logistical problems.”

“What, you mean like if there’s a mission? Already thought of that,” Tony says, swiping at his watch to project schematics for what appears to be several new mechanical suit prototypes. “I think all I need to do is tweak the design for Rhodey’s leg braces a bit to add some arms, a spine, and a Star-Spangled paint job and he’ll be good as new.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “No, I mean, if the paralysis continues, who knows if he’ll need additional breathing assistance, or a catheter, or—”

“Uh guys?” Steve calls. Both men poke their heads into the lab. Steve is still reclined on his chair where they left him five minutes ago, an oxygen cannula running under his nose as a precaution. “Can we maybe not talk about me like I can’t hear every word you’re saying?”

Bruce gives him a sheepish look as they both step back into the room. “Sorry, I always forget about the enhanced hearing.”

“Well, since you’re listening in any way,” Tony says, pointing at the images projected in the air. ”You thinking red or blue for the braces?”

Steve glares at him. “You know what, Tony? You can—” He stops suddenly, glancing down at his hand. “I think my finger just wiggled!”

Immediately, Bruce and Tony lean in to peer at the hand with bated breath. After a few seconds, Steve’s middle finger twitches.

Bruce heaves out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god…”

As the concern fades from Tony’s features, he scoffs. “Did Captain Righteous just flip us off?”

Steve only smirks.

* * *

  **SDP-416**

The paralysis wears off completely by 8:00 pm, but they keep Steve overnight for observation anyway. Following that incident, the next few days are spent reformulating and testing the painkiller, with no success.

Three hours after releasing Steve from the failed trial of SDP-416—during which the pain did not decrease in the slightest (and actually went up)—the soldier is now standing back in Bruce’s lab, shirtless, scratching at his side.

Bruce adjusts his glasses, peering closer at the hives completely covering Steve’s upper body. “So you’re saying they’re everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” Steve confirms grimly.

Poking a gloved finger at one of the welts on Steve’s shoulder, Tony winces. “So even like…?”

“Imagine a place.” Steve pauses for a beat. “They’re there.”

Bruce sighs. “I’ll get you some calamine lotion…”

* * *

**SDP-418**

“I just don’t understand how we fucked up this bad,” Tony mutters under his breath, staring at the quietly whimpering soldier reclined in the chair before him.

“This is actually a fairly common medication side effect,” Bruce whispers back.

“Yeah but this is supposed to be a pain _reducer_ ,” Tony points out, “not a pain _inducer.”_ He pauses and then huffs. “I already built him one of those.”

Bruce sighs. “At least it’s nothing life-threatening this time.”

“Unfortunately...” Steve croaks. Curled miserably on his side and facing away from the two men, he lets out a small groan.

All the lights in the room have been dimmed to fifteen percent and both FRIDAY and the heart monitor are now muted. Bruce steps closer and adjusts the cool rag over Steve’s eyes to cover them better. “Uh, do you think you can rate the pain in your arm?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t give a damn about my arm...” Steve moans. “But my head is at least a twenty.”

“I meant on a scale of one to ten,” Bruce clarifies.

Steve groans. “I know….” He swallows hard. “Where’s the bucket?”

Quickly, Tony grabs the plastic bin from the ever-growing collection of contingency items they’ve been accumulating under the desk and holds it in front of the soldier’s face.

Steve takes a few deep breaths through the obvious nausea. “I haven’t had a migraine since 1939… almost forgot how awful they are.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder. “I’d offer you some of my Imitrex, but…” he trails off. “Well, if drugs worked on you, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

As Steve whimpers, Bruce starts removing the P.A.I.N. device from the man’s arm. “I think we can safely say this one is a bust,” he says with a sigh.

“...What gave it away?” Steve whispers. Then he burps sickly and leans over the side of the chair to vomit into the bin.

Grimacing, Tony turns his head away. “Maybe we should put him to bed.”

“Yeah… let’s do that,” Bruce agrees, wincing guiltily as he pats Steve on the back. “So sorry about this one.”

Steve just groans in response.


	3. Lab Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disastrous laboratory trials of SDP-500.

**SDP-501**

Steve’s migraine ends up lasting thirty-six hours, during which time Bruce and Tony come to the conclusion that they need to completely rework the formula from scratch.

Following five days of research, calculations, and reformulations, the two scientists are back to sitting in the lab with mugs of green tea while watching FRIDAY run simulations on their newest drug, SDP-501.

Peering into the cup and swirling the liquid around, Tony’s face screws up in disgust. “How do you drink this crap?” he asks. “It’s like you boiled moss.”

“It grows on you after a while,” Bruce replies, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Yeah, like moss,” Tony retorts.

“Give it a few weeks and you’ll acquire a taste for it.”

“I don’t want a taste for moss,” he grumbles. “I’m not a log, Bruce.”

Bruce and Tony each take another long sip from their respective mugs just as FRIDAY announces, “Simulation complete, boss. Results as follows.”

Turning their heads to the information displayed on the screen, Bruce suddenly chokes on his tea while Tony spews it out of his mouth in shock.

Between coughs, Bruce manages to sputter, “H-How did that even…?” he trails off. “I mean, the sheer _size_ of the”—he cuts himself off with a shudder—“And the pus! So much pus!”

With a horrified look in his eyes, Tony sets the tea down on the desk and pushes it away. “I am never going to be able to unsee that.”

“Let’s not show this one to Steve,” Bruce whispers hoarsely. “Ever.”

* * *

  **SDP-506**

“Dr. Banner, you have an incoming call from Steve Rogers,” FRIDAY’s voice comes over the speakers. “This is his third attempt to reach you.”

“Put him on hold!” Tony orders. He grabs the fire extinguisher from the wall and races back to Bruce, who is urgently trying to clear anything flammable from the vicinity of the growing blaze. Lab trials of SDP-506 were looking promising, prior to the formula’s spontaneous combustion.

“I’m sorry, but my protocol states that after three consecutive attempts, calls from teammates must be pushed through,” FRIDAY replies.

“Who the fuck made _that_ protocol?!” Tony demands, pulling the pin on the extinguisher.

“You did, boss,” she says as Tony sprays the fire in white foam. “Connecting now.”

“No, don’t!” Bruce yelps as Tony commands, “Override code, 6673—”

“Hey Bruce!” Steve’s voice comes over the speakers.

Over the sound of the spray, Bruce replies, “Hey Steve, uh, I’m a little busy at the moment. You know, lab work and such...”

“I’ll be quick,” Steve says. “I was just calling to see when our next trial might be. It’s been like two weeks since the last one now and Sam just invited me bowling, but I didn’t want to plan anything until—”

Bruce yanks a cart of chemicals out of the danger zone. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead!” he calls. “It’ll be a few days on the next formula, still working out some kinks!”

There’s a brief pause. “Is everything alright? I’m hearing a lot of background noise...”

One of the chemicals rolls off the side of Bruce’s cart and towards the fire. “Oh no!” Bruce shouts in horror. “Not the nitroglycerin!”

Tony swears. In one fluid motion, he chucks the fire extinguisher to the side and presses the armor housing unit on his chest, releasing his suit.

“Guys? What’s goi—”

Leaping at Bruce, Tony tackles the doctor to the ground, landing heavily on Bruce’s left shoulder a split second before the bottle reaches the flames. Instantly, the nitroglycerin explodes, sending shards of glass flying.

As the smoke billowing from the remains of their formula reaches the lab’s hazard sensors, the overhead sprinklers start spraying, dousing the remaining fire.

“Bruce! Are you—” Steve begins.

“Have fun bowling!” Tony yelps. “FRIDAY end call.”

The line cuts out. Rolling off of the doctor, Tony flops to his back and retracts his helmet to stare up at the ceiling. “You alright?” he gasps.

Beside him, Bruce only groans as pain flares in his obviously dislocated shoulder.

“Yeah, same…” Tony breathes out. “Let’s take tomorrow off.”

* * *

**Peter's Visit**

“So, how’d you hurt your shoulder, Dr. Banner?” Peter asks curiously through a mouthful of PB&J. The kid is standing in the common area kitchen, wolfing down his usual afternoon snack before kicking off his weekend spent at the Avengers compound.

Wearily, Bruce looks up from the mug of coffee he’s nursing as he sits hunched over on the kitchen barstool beside Tony. “Oh, this?” he asks, nodding to the sling supporting his left arm. “Nothing. Uh, just fell down the stairs.”

Tony gives an amused snort, which he quickly covers by taking a sip of his own coffee.

Peter winces. “Oh, that sucks,” he says sympathetically.

“At least you didn’t hulk out,” Tony quips. “Thought we were close for a minute there…”

“Well you did nearly _crush_ me,” Bruce grumbles. “Would’ve been your own damn fault.”

“Hey, I saved your life!”

“Wait, wait, did you fall down the stairs too?” Peter asks, brow furrowing. “Is that how you lost your eyebrow?”

Self-consciously, Tony tugs at the baseball cap he’s wearing to conceal the singed few hairs remaining above his right eye. He was standing right over SDP-506 when it burst into flames. “What eyebrow?”

Giggling lightly at that, Bruce twists the cap off the bottle of ibuprofen in front of him and throws back three pills, which he swallows with a mouthful of coffee. He’s never appreciated his perfectly average metabolism as much as today.

Peter shoots them a concerned look. “Are you guys, like... okay?”

Bruce snorts humorously. “Better than Steve.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with Mr. Rogers?” Peter questions, looking even more confused.

“Nothing, he’s fine,” Tony butts in. “Eat your sandwich, Pete.”

* * *

  **SDP-515**

After a well-deserved weekend off, the two scientists throw themselves back into their work with renewed vigor. But by Wednesday evening, nine formula tweaks later, they seem no closer to a solution.

Returning from the kitchen, Bruce reenters the lab to find Tony exasperatedly running a hand through his hair as the simulation report for SDP-515 fills the screens in front of him.

“Is it doing it again?” Bruce asks, fishing a handful of M&Ms from the bag that’s currently balanced atop his sling.

With a groan, Tony pushes his chair backwards from the desk and spins it around in a circle. “I just don’t get it,” he complains. “We’ve changed the formula so many times and we’re back to this.”

Tossing the M&Ms into his mouth, Bruce leans in closer to examine the holographic test subject. He frowns, holding out the bag to offer Tony some candy. “Is the pus turning purple now?”

Tony grimaces. “How can you eat while looking at that?”

“I specialize in radiation. Believe me, I’ve seen worse. You get used to it,” Bruce replies, chewing. He points at the largest of the boils on the subject’s forehead. “You know, I think that one might actually be a tumor…”

* * *

  **SDP-524**

Beeping loudly, a hazardous materials truck backs into the loading dock outside the compound. Several workers in bright yellow hazmat suits hop out and hurry into the building. Bruce tries not to meet the gaze of the inhabitants of the compound who are all standing around outside curiously.

“Tony!” an irritated voice calls.

Dressed in a bathrobe with shampoo still in her hair, Pepper marches over to them.

“Oh, shit here we go…” Tony says under his breath. He looks up and gives her a pained smile. “Hi honey.”

“What have you done this time?” she demands. “Why did FRIDAY have to evacuate the entire compound?”

Tony glances at his feet and scratches the back of his neck. “She was just following protocol 2319 for, uh… you know. Presence of potentially deadly toxic fumes.”

Pepper heaves out a hard sigh. “Tony. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in that lab, but it needs to stop.”

“Well, it’s not like we were going for this outcome when—”

“It was my fault,” Bruce cuts in. “I should have been paying more attention. I swear, I just set the pill down and turned my back for two seconds, and then...”

“Right, right, who could have possibly predicted it would eat right through the table?” Tony jumps back in.

“...And then the floor,” Bruce adds sadly.

Pepper crosses her arms. “You’re going to tell Steve about this one, right?”

Sighing deeply, Bruce lowers himself down to sit on the curb, covering his face with his hands.


	4. SDP-500

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human trials resume with a new formula.

**SDP-530**

It’s a full two weeks before Steve is back in Bruce’s freshly renovated lab, now complete with a new fire extinguisher mounted to the wall. The soldier is once more hooked up to the heart monitor and P.A.I.N. device, and a plastic bin is resting in his lap. A cooler with ice—and a distinct lack of champagne—sits to the side, along with a cylinder of oxygen and a bottle of calamine lotion. FRIDAY has been instructed to alert them if Steve’s temperature should reach 100.5 and she has a brand new migraine protocol at the ready.

“Are you ready?” Bruce asks.

Steve, looking significantly more nervous than he has in previous trials, gives a nod. “Yeah, go on then.”

“Alright this is SDP-530,” Bruce announces as he picks up the oblong white pill from the tray and hands it to Steve, along with a small paper cup of water. “Now in pill form.”

“Hm.” Steve squints at the pill curiously before shrugging and popping it into his mouth.

As soon as it’s swallowed, both Bruce and Tony sit down on their respective stools to watch Steve intently, the doctor taking occasional notes while Tony taps his foot impatiently.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Steve heaves out a sigh. “Guys, this is creeping me out. Can you stop staring at me?”

“Sorry, we’re just a little on edge,” Bruce admits.

“But we are confident in this one!” Tony quickly assures. “We’ve done extensive lab trials and simulations with this new formula, and recently”—he gestures to the whiteboard on the lab wall beside them, which has a box drawn on it labeled ‘Days Since Last Incident: 11’—”our rate of combustion has been sitting firmly at zero.”

“Okay, then stop looking at me like I’m going to explode any second,” Steve huffs. “Can we just do something to pass the time? Checkers, Rummy, Tic-Tac-Toe… anything?”

**X**

“Got any eights?” Tony asks.

“Go fish,” Steve replies, shifting slightly in his seat. The engineer sighs and takes a new card from the pile.

“Got any eights, Tony?” Bruce asks, grinning smugly.

“Fuck you, Banner,” Tony mutters, sliding his three cards across the small metal table.

Bruce adds his one remaining card and flips them face up. “Oh hey, I win again,” he announces and Tony scowls.

As they begin a new round, Bruce notices Steve shifting uncomfortably in his seat once more. “You alright?” he checks.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Steve says, grimacing slightly. “My stomach’s kind of hurting.”

Instant dread pools in Bruce’s own gut and he exchanges a nervous glance with Tony. “What do you mean? Hurting how?” the doctor asks. He’s going for calm, but it comes out more like a demand as he recalls their recent disastrous lab trials. “Is it a sharp pain? Is it burning?”

“Anything feel like it’s going to spontaneously combust?” Tony asks nervously.

“No…” Steve shifts again, rubbing a hand at his stomach. “It’s more like… cramping.”

Frowning, Bruce puts down his cards and gets to his feet. “Can you show me where the pain is located?” he asks, lifting the bottom of Steve’s shirt.

“Here,” Steve replies, his hand hovering over his lower abdomen.

Carefully, Bruce presses his fingertips to the indicated area. An ominous growl issues from Steve’s gut.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Steve suddenly pales. “Um, I gotta go,” he says. “Now.”

Bruce’s eyes widen. “Oh! Okay, okay hang on,” he says as he and Tony start urgently peeling off the electrodes from Steve’s chest.

They’ve only gotten two of them off before Steve grabs the rest of the wires in one hand and rips them away, swinging his legs over the side of the chair. “So sorry!” he grunts as he hurries towards the adjoining bathroom.

Grabbing his tablet, Bruce quickly follows him to the door—Tony running along beside—just as Steve slams it shut.

“Uh, Steve?” Bruce calls. He has to ask. “What’s going on?”

Steve only moans. “What do you think?”

“Which end?” Tony clarifies briskly. “North or South?”

“I hate you,” Steve says miserably. “Never trusting your damn ‘confidence’ again…”

“South it is...” Tony mutters.

Bruce coughs awkwardly and puts on his best doctor voice. “Is there any blood? Can you, uh… describe the consistency?”

“Can we talk later?” Steve groans. “Please?”

Tony glances sideways at Bruce. “Maybe we should just let him be,” he suggests in a whisper.

Bruce is tempted to agree—especially given the array of unpleasant noises issuing from behind the door—but his better judgment tells him otherwise. “We really do need to know,” he says grimly. “Only six formulas ago, we ate through a table—god knows what that’s doing to his insides.”

Tony sighs. “Alright then.” In a louder voice, he calls, “No can do, buddy. You know the drill. Ever since you collapsed into a porcelain sink, we now have a minimum observation period for these trials and you are smack dab in the middle of it. So either you keep us updated, or FRIDAY overrides her camera privacy protocol.”

There’s a pause.

“...No blood.”

**X**

“So, to clarify here,” Bruce asks ten minutes later from his position just outside the bathroom door, “you’re _sure_ this is from the meds? Didn’t eat anything funky?”

“Sam’s chili, for instance?” Tony suggests.

“I had plain oatmeal for breakfast,” Steve replies in a strained voice. “And boiled chicken and rice last night, so I’m pretty sure this one’s all on you.”

Bruce grimaces. “Anything else? Nausea?”

Steve groans. “Not really. More focused on the other end.”

“I mean, that’s progress, isn’t it?” Tony says hopefully.

They hear a flush, followed by the sound of the faucet running. A few moments later, the door opens to reveal Steve looking to be on death’s doorstep. He’s paler than Bruce has ever seen him and his shirt is damp with sweat.

“This is not progress, Tony,” Steve croaks. He sways slightly on his feet and has to brace himself in the doorway. “This is many, many steps back.”

“Okay, but on the bright side, you’re not paralyzed this time,” Tony points out. “I mean just imagine the issues if—”

“Tony, that’s enough,” Bruce cuts him off. He steps closer to Steve and gestures vaguely at the soldier's stomach. “Can you, uh, lift up your shirt?”

Steve blinks at him. “What for?” he asks in a flat tone. “All the action’s on the inside.”

As Tony snorts, Bruce sheepishly explains, “Um, just need to make sure there’s no weird bruising, which might indicate… um, internal bleeding.”

“Oh joy.” Wearily, Steve lifts the hem of his shirt.

Bruce adjusts his glasses before examining the skin underneath and prodding at the soldier’s stomach a bit. Satisfied that nothing seems discolored or out of the ordinary, he nods and lowers the shirt back down before shifting his gaze to the device on Steve’s arm. “I think we can be done with the P.A.I.N. now.”

But before Tony gets the chance to remove it, another angry-sounding growl from Steve’s gut cuts him off. “Oh we’re far from done with the pain,” Steve grunts sharply.

Then he spins on his heel, slamming the door in their face.

**X**

Thirty minutes later, Bruce and Tony are still sitting on the floor just outside the bathroom door playing chess on the Starkpad.

“Checkmate,” Bruce declares moving his knight to E7. “Again.”

“Fucking hell…” Tony mutters. He reaches up a hand and knocks on the door. “Hanging in there buddy?”

“I still hate you…” Steve moans. “And I need more toilet paper.”

Tony gives a small giggle. “Hey, did you know diarrhea is hereditary?” he calls.

“What?” Bruce frowns. “No it’s not. I mean, studies have shown a potential link between family members and IBS, but otherwise—”

Tony interrupts, “It’s because it runs in your genes,” he finishes with a smirk.

Bruce groans and rolls his eyes, but a snort of amusement issues from the soldier through the bathroom door.

* * *

**SDP-532**

Following the last incident—eventually ending in Steve being hooked up to an IV and eating nothing but toast and applesauce for twenty-four hours—Bruce is honestly surprised when Steve shows up for the next trial.

“You’re sure about this?” Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.

Steve looks him dead in the eyes. “I started this, I intend to finish it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tony grins, giving Steve a hearty clap on the back.

Bruce sighs. “Alright, this is SDP-532,” he says as he hands Steve the drug along with a Dixie cup of water. “Fingers crossed.”

Steve downs the pill. While they wait, Bruce starts organizing the growing pile of supplies—puke bin, ice chest, oxygen, calamine lotion, hazmat suits, and fire extinguisher—along with the bulk package of toilet paper Tony is currently stacking into a pyramid.

Steve seems especially tired today and is dozing in the chair while they work. Bruce can’t blame him, given everything they’ve put the poor man through lately.

It’s about half an hour before an alarm from Steve’s heart monitor causes Bruce to spin around from the lab samples he’s just started analyzing. Ever since SDP-228 triggered a cardiac event last year, this is the outcome he’s most been dreading. “Steve?” Bruce calls, immediately hurrying over.

Tossing aside the Home & Garden magazine he’s been perusing from Bruce’s stack, Tony jumps up and runs over as well. “What’s going on?” he asks urgently.

Steve is looking flushed and his breaths are coming out short and quick. “Uh, I dunno... kinda dizzy.”

“Just dizzy?” Bruce clarifies as he shifts his attention to the monitor, taking in the concerning pattern of spikes and plateaus on the screen.

Tony holds the back of his hand to the soldier’s head to gauge his temperature. “Not feeling sick—either direction?”

Shaking his head, Steve squeezes his eyes shut. “Nah, just… tired. Can’t catch my breath.”

“Your monitor is indicating cardiac arrhythmia,” Bruce explains, gesturing to the screen. “And your blood pressure isn’t looking too hot.”

Tony glances back to Bruce. “Should I get the defib?” he murmurs.

“Probably not a bad idea to have it on hand,” Bruce replies quietly. Turning back to the soldier, he asks, “Steve, can you rate the pain?”

“Gone up a bit,” Steve gasps out. “Maybe a seven now.” He coughs. “Getting a little... hard to breathe.”

Alarmed, Bruce pulls out a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat and starts listening to Steve’s chest. Between the coughs, there’s a telltale wheeze to his breaths now. “Does this feel like an allergic reaction?” he asks. “Is your throat tight?”

“Honestly”—Steve wheezes—“feels a lot like”—he coughs a few times—“asthma.”

“Asthma?” Tony’s brow furrows. “I thought the serum cured that.”

“Thought so”—wheeze—“too. But this feels”—wheeze—“so familiar.”

As Bruce continues his exam, Steve starts coughing up mucus into a wad of tissues. The doctor is perplexed; for something that clearly can’t be asthma, it sure looks and sounds a lot like asthma.

“Okay, we’ll figure this out, don’t worry,” Bruce says, more to reassure himself than anyone else. “Tony, you wanna grab the oxygen? Just in case.”

“Wish I”—Steve gasps—“had my” —wheeze—“asthma”—cough—“cigarettes.”

As he sets up the oxygen mask, Tony huffs out a humorless laugh. “Medicine has had some advancements in the past seventy years. Don’t know if you heard but smoking is bad now.”

“Oh,” Steve gasps. “Bummer.”

“Does Medbay have albuterol?” Bruce asks worriedly. “A nebulizer? Anything?”

Tony’s face screws up in thought. “Hey FRIDAY, can you send Happy up here?”

**X**

Several minutes later, Happy is standing in the lab, grumbling out instructions to the soldier currently taking puffs of the head of security’s rescue inhaler.

“Now you hold your breath for ten seconds,” Happy says as the medicine fills Steve’s lungs. “...and then let it out. And again…”

As Steve does so, Happy turns back to look at Tony and Bruce. “Is anyone going to explain what the hell is going on?” he demands. “Why does he suddenly have asthma again?”

“Uh, it’s kind of a long and slightly illegal story,” Tony explains as he scratches at the back of his neck. “Less you know, the better.”

“I just don’t get it.” Bruce sighs, adjusting his glasses. “He’s responding well to the treatment. I’ve just never heard of asthma as a drug side effect.”

“I mean, we did create a completely new drug,” Tony points out. “There’s no precedent for the side effects.”

It ends up taking eight puffs of Happy’s inhaler before Steve’s breathing is back under control. Bruce is eyeing the heart monitor carefully. The arrhythmia is still there, but nothing has worsened. Steve is breathing a lot better now, though the combination of the medication and anxiety is causing him to jitter uncontrollably.

Turning to Happy, Steve rasps out, “Thanks. This tastes a lot better than the cigarettes used to.”

“Never really thought about the taste,” Happy says with a scoff.

“If you had my smokes, you would’ve,” Steve huffs. He turns the inhaler over in his fingers, squinting at the label. “What’s in it?”

“Steroids,” Bruce answers.

“This is the one for emergencies, and then there’s a different one I take every day,” Happy adds.

“Hm.” Steve keeps blinking at the medication label, alternating between holding it closer and further from his face.

Tony snorts at him. “Age finally catching up to you, old man?”

Rubbing a hand at his eyes, Steve gives a tired sigh. “Just can’t get my eyes to focus.”

Bruce frowns. “Can I take a look?” he asks, pulling out a penlight from his pocket.

At Steve’s nod, Bruce proceeds to shine the light in his eyes. Steve’s pupils respond normally and nothing seems to be obviously wrong.

“It’s funny,” Steve says, “haven’t had vision this bad since the thirties.”

All of a sudden it clicks—heart trouble, fatigue, asthma, poor eyesight… Bruce has seen this somewhere before: Steve’s medical records.

“Oh shit,” Bruce breathes out. “I think I know what happened.”

All eyes turn to him, including Steve’s squinting ones.

“Well, by all means, doc,” Tony says. “Enlighten us.”

Bruce heaves out a sigh. “We depowered him.”

**X**

“Just one round, that’s all I’m asking,” Tony begs.

While Steve shoots him a tired glare, Bruce runs an exasperated hand over his face. “Tony,” he groans, “for the last time, you cannot arm-wrestle the depowered supersoldier. He has a heart condition.”

“So do I!” Tony retorts and Happy barks out a sharp laugh. “For once, we’re on equal footing here.”

“My money’s still on Rogers,” Happy quips. He’s pulled up a stool of his own to join the sad little party they have going.

Bruce continues anxiously watching the monitors. It’s been almost an hour since they determined the effects of SDP-532. Outwardly, the soldier looks the same, but his lungs, heart, and vision all seem to be functioning at the state of their pre-serum days. The P.A.I.N. device has been removed and is sitting on the table beside Happy—who’d poked it curiously once, eliciting a colorful string of curses—much to Tony’s amusement.

In contrast to the hyperness from before, Steve keeps blinking now, looking as though he’s struggling to stay awake.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks.

“Just… tired,” he mutters. “Used to be anemic back before the serum… only treatment was drinking raw liver juice”—a collective grimace is shared by the others—“What do they do for that these days?”

“B12 shot, in the butt,” Tony answers knowingly. “Hurts like a bitch.”

Bruce addresses Steve, “Good news at least is that judging from previous trials, this should be wearing off pretty soon.” Glancing back to Tony, he adds, “You, however, were due for another injection yesterday.”

“Iron Man with iron deficiency…” Happy snickers. “Still hilarious.”

“Had other things on my mind lately,” Tony retorts, gesturing dramatically in Steve’s direction.

“Trial’s over, right?” Steve asks wearily. “All this squinting is giving me a headache. Do you think I can just go take a nap?”

“I mean, you’re welcome to sleep,” Bruce says, “but between the asthma, heart condition, and anemia, we’re still going to have to monitor you until you’re back to normal.”

Steve lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Guys, you do realize that this was my life for the first twenty years, right? I made it this far, I can probably last a few hours.”

Bruce hesitates. “I suppose you can crash on my couch,” he offers, pointing at the gray sofa in the opposite corner of the room. With the amount of lab work he does, samples often need to be taken in and out of incubators and tested at odd hours, so he’s spent many nights on it himself. “It folds out.”

“I’ll take it,” Steve sighs. Bruce and Tony help untangle the wires as the soldier gingerly pushes himself up from the chair. “God, I could sleep for another seventy years...”

* * *

**SDP-537**

Bruce stares dejectedly at the data from their most recent trial, SDP-537. It’s been nearly five hours now since they declared the last formula a fail, Steve having reported no change in the pain whatsoever, but curiously enough, also no side effects. Bruce is not sure whether that means they’re closer or further from their answer.

“Alright, I’m done for the day,” Tony says, heaving out a sigh. “You coming? Happy just texted that he made lasagna.”

“Yeah, I just gotta run one more analysis,” Bruce mutters. “Be right up.”

Tony leaves and Bruce turns his attention back to the Starkpad, poring over the formula yet again. A few moments later, he’s interrupted by a quiet knocking.

“Yeah?” he calls, pushing back his chair and turning to look at the doorway.

Steve steps in awkwardly. He’s still wearing the gray sweatpants and t-shirt from the earlier trial and he’s holding his shield in front of him. “Uh, Bruce, you got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?” Bruce asks.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Steve steps further into the lab and closes the door behind him. His cheeks are flushed. “Um, I seem to be having a little… problem.”

Bruce frowns, getting to his feet. “What kind of problem? You having any new symptoms?”

“Uh… something like that.” With a wince, he moves his shield to the side and Bruce blinks at the soldier’s pants, which are tented over the crotch area. “It won’t go down.”

“Oh!” Bruce says. He recovers quickly and tries to speak in his most professional tone. “So, how long has it been exactly…?”

Steve coughs. “Started like half an hour after I left the lab.”

Quickly calculating the time, Bruce gapes at him. “Wait, you’re saying you’ve had an erection for _four hours_?” he clarifies.

Steve nods miserably.

“Have you tried, uh…” Bruce trails off, searching for the best term. “...dealing with it?”

Steve locks eyes with him. “It’s been four hours. I have tried everything, Bruce.”

Bruce winces. “Does it... hurt?”

Steve nods again.

Bruce clears his throat. “Right, okay then. Um, guess I should take a look?”

Grimly, Steve steps forward while Bruce pulls on a pair of gloves. The soldier is just lowering his pants when the door opens and they both freeze.

Tony is standing in the doorway with two plates of steaming lasagna, blinking at the scene unfolding in front of him. “Am I interrupting something?”

**X**

“So what you’re saying is,” Tony begins, barely suppressing a laugh, “that we accidentally created a super Viagra?”

“It’s really not funny, Tony,” Bruce says reprovingly. Steve has resumed holding the shield in front of him and is staring at his feet, looking as though he wants to melt into the floor. “The man’s in pain.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Tony agrees.

Still looking down, Steve mumbles, “So, there’s really nothing we can do?”

Shaking his head apologetically, Bruce sighs. “I mean, I assume the drug acted as a vasodilator, increasing the blood flow to the area. Once it wears off, it should go down on its own. Medically, there’s nothing that can be done to make it happen faster.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Steve gives a grim nod.

“Wait, so you’ve already tried…?” Tony makes a jerking off motion near his belt.

Steve's cheeks go even redder. “Do you think I would be here if I hadn’t tried that already?”

Tony shrugs. “Fair point. What about outside assistance?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—you couldn’t afford me,” Tony scoffs. “No, I mean, I’ve still got some numbers saved. I can call you up a pretty girl for the night.”

At Steve’s lack of response, Tony throws in, “Or a pretty guy. Whatever floats your boat. Speaking of which, where’s your scary shadow assassin?”

Steve sighs and shuffles back toward the door, shield still covering his lower half. “I think I’ll just wait it out. Thanks anyway.”

“I’ve got some magazines!” Tony calls after him. “They’re vintage!”

The door shuts with a bang.

* * *

**SDP-539**

“Guess we’ve come full circle,” Tony says through a grimace. He’s supporting Steve’s forehead to keep him from toppling forward into the bin that the soldier is currently retching into miserably.

“How’s the pain?” Bruce asks wearily, glancing up from his notes.

Steve gags again, head still in the bucket. “Down a bit,” he rasps. “But th’ nausea makes up for it...” he mumbles.

After removing the P.A.I.N. device, Bruce flops down onto his stool, defeated. “I am literally out of ideas,” he says through a sigh. “I think we need to call the trials off.”

“But we still don’t have anything to give the kid next time,” Tony points out. “Besides Super Viagra, puking pills, and a very effective laxative.”

“Tony,” Bruce sighs. “It’s over.”

“No,” Steve croaks. “Can’t give up. You ‘ave to be gettin’... close.”

“But we can’t keep asking you to do this,” Bruce protests. “We’ve been basically torturing you for two months. It’s unethical.”

“Gotta keep goin’...” Steve spits into the bin one last time before shakily lifting his head up. His eyes are bloodshot and sweat is running down his face, mixing with the vomit on his chin. Despite resembling death warmed over, there’s a look of utter determination in the soldier’s eyes. “I can... do this... all day.”

* * *

**SDP-542**

“Is Captain Righteousness… high?” Tony asks in amazement.

The soldier is giggling so hard that tears are beginning to run from his eyes. “Higher than you!” he giggles. “‘Cus you’re short!” he dissolves into further laughter. “Tiny Tony, so cute…”

Bruce coughs. “Uh, but how’s the pain?” he checks.

Drool is beginning to run down Steve’s chin, which he wipes clumsily with the back of his hand. “I dunno… maybe a two?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That’s…really good. We might be onto something here.”

Steve frowns. “Two’s too little…” He pokes a finger at the device on his left arm. “We shoul’ turn it up,” he slurs, starting to twist the dial.

“No, no, don’t mess with that,” Tony says, grabbing his wrist to stop him. “Trust me.”

“Oh…” Steve says sadly. And then actual tears well up in his eyes and he leans into Tony’s shoulder. “I r-really wanted to touch it…” he moans.

While a very bewildered-looking Tony holds the quietly crying soldier, Bruce double-checks the medication dosage they calculated on the Starkpad. “I think we might’ve overshot...” he mutters.

Still holding Steve, Tony rolls his eyes dramatically. “You think?”

As suddenly as it started, Steve’s crying stops and he pulls back from Tony. “I’m good, ’m good...” he assures, then giggles again. “Hit me.”

“What?” Tony asks, brow furrowing.

He giggles again. “H-Hit me! I won’ feel it. I’m a Super Duper Soldier now…”

Then before anyone can say a word, Steve’s eyelids droop and he falls back against the chair’s headrest.

Tony shoots the doctor a worried look. “Did he just faint?”

Bruce starts tapping the soldier on the cheek. “Steve? You alright, buddy?”

Steve lets out a snore.

“Yep,” Bruce concludes, “we definitely need to lower the dosage.”

**X**

“We don’t need to get SHIELD, okay? He’s _fine_ ,” Tony insists for the fourth time that day, gesturing to Steve’s unconscious form on the Medbay bed. An array of wires and tubes are attached to the soldier, connecting him to various monitors and bags. “Look, he’s just taking a nap.”

“It’s been _three days_ , Tony!” Bruce protests. “He’s been out for _three days!”_

Tony shrugs. “He once slept for seventy years. What’s another couple days?”

Bruce runs an exasperated hand over his face. “Tony—”

Tony cuts him off. “But, I mean, his brain activity is normal, he’s not in pain, his heart rate is fine, his blood pressure is fine—”

“He’s in a goddamn _coma_!” Bruce exclaims.

Tony’s face falls. “Well, that is the unfortunate part, yes…”

“We need to call,” Bruce says firmly. “We are in way over our heads.”

Tony sighs, pulling out his phone. “Alright, alright, fine. But _I_ will be making the call.”

Just as Tony presses the contact, a weak voice issues from behind the two bickering men:

“Uhhgh….C’n you guys ‘eep it down?”

Bruce spins around in shock. “Steve?” he cries, watching the soldier blink awake.

Fury’s muffled voice comes through the phone: _“What did you do now, Stark?”_

Tony’s eyes dart from Steve to the phone in his hand. He quickly brings it to his ear. “Butt-dial, my bad!” he says as he presses the button to disconnect the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've not previously read our one-shot, [Desperate Times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840624), consider doing so now as it is referenced in the next chapter.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peter is severely injured once more, Bruce and Tony are forced to make a difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've not previously read our one-shot, [Desperate Times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840624), featuring Tony's experience taking SDP-542, consider doing so now as it is referenced in this chapter.

Given Peter’s choice of occupation, Bruce always knew it was just a matter of time until the kid would be seriously injured again, but it doesn’t make the situation any less painful to watch.

Less than an hour ago, he and Tony were in the process of finishing up their final lab trials for a reduced dosage version of SDP-542. They were hoping to test it on Steve later that afternoon, but their plans all went out the window when FRIDAY sounded the alarm.

Over his years with the Avengers, Bruce has witnessed his share of horrific injuries. But seeing the seventeen-year-old kid strapped to the gurney, tears streaming down his cheeks and mixing with blood trickling from a gash on the side of his skull, Bruce nearly breaks down himself. After falling six stories and crashing down onto the alley below, Peter is choking out sobs, his arm bent at a hideous angle and his hip jutting out slightly.

“Shh, it’s okay it’s okay, bud, we’re gonna fix this…” Tony consoles, moving briskly alongside the gurney as the medics wheel the kid out of the helicopter and into the compound. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise…”

“It re-really h-hurts!” Peter cries, struggling against the restraints.

“Peter, I know it hurts but it’s very important that you keep still,” Bruce commands, jogging on the other side of the kid as they push him through the Medbay doors. “Moving is just going to cause more damage.”

The moment they enter, a medical team converges on them. Bruce and the SHIELD doctors hook Peter up to monitors and run various scans while Tony hovers anxiously beside the kid, doing his best to keep him calm.

“His fractured femur is our biggest concern,” the SHIELD doctor informs Bruce, pointing at the MRI results. “With the amount of damage to the surrounding blood vessels and his rapid healing factor, I’m concerned the misalignment will cut off circulation. My recommendation is immediate surgery to insert pins and realign the break.”

Peter’s already pale face goes ashen. “I-I ca-can’t do this ‘gain M’s’r Stark,” he chokes out, “I can’t, I ca-can’t.”

Instantly Bruce’s mind is filled with the terrible memory of Peter lying on a hospital bed with multiple spinal fractures, in too much pain to even speak. He recalls his and Tony’s horror upon realizing they had no viable anesthesia to give him, recalls how the kid’s cries echoed through the compound until Peter finally, mercifully, passed out.

“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” Tony promises, voice broken, as he carefully rubs Peter’s good shoulder. “We’re gonna fix it, I swear. These guys are good. And we’ve got something for the pain this time, it’s not gonna be like before.”

Bruce’s head snaps up from the MRI he was looking at and he stares at his friend in disbelief. “Tony,” he interrupts, his voice low. “Can I have a word?”

Still stroking Peter’s arm, Tony mutters, “Not now, Bruce…”

“Yes. Now,” Bruce says, grabbing Tony’s elbow and pulling him towards the door. At Peter’s whimper from the loss of contact, Bruce gives him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, we’ll be right back.”

He quickly ushers Tony out of Medbay and into the hall before turning on him. “Why would you say that?” he demands. “We still have nothing to give him—SDP is still in its trial stage!”

“It’s done,” Tony argues. “It worked on Steve—”

“It put him in a coma!” Bruce exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Which he recovered from! And it worked on me,” Tony goes on, referring to an incident last week when the engineer took half a pill of SDP-542 in a misguided effort to relieve his migraine.

Bruce’s frustration is quickly turning to anger now and he has to fight to keep The Other Guy at bay. “It nearly killed you! You _overdosed!_ You only got released from Medbay yourself two days ago!”

“And I’m standing right here,” Tony points out. “Good as new!”

Bruce scoffs hotly. “Sure, after being pumped full of Naloxone and puking up your kidneys all weekend! You really think that’s gonna help him at the moment?!”

“Bruce, c’mon…” Tony attempts to calm him down by placing a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, but Bruce shakes him off.

“No! I am not administering an untested drug on a _child!”_

“But it _has been_ tested!” Tony all but shouts. He takes a deep breath before trying again in a more even tone, though his eyes are starting to look moist. “Listen, I know what I did was reckless and stupid and you can be pissed at me all you want, I won’t blame you. But my physiology is completely different from the kid’s. We have every reason to believe this drug will work on him. And we can start him on a smaller dosage than we gave Steve.”

Balling up his fists, Bruce presses them to his eyes. “Tony…”

“He needs goddamn surgery, Bruce.” Tears start running down his cheeks, and he impatiently wipes them away with the back of his hand. “I can’t let him go through all that pain again. I can’t. Not when we can help him.”

Bruce’s heart clenches—he’s never heard such a mixture of fear, pain, and broken compassion from his friend. He wants to agree, wants to do anything in his power to alleviate the kid’s suffering. But after all these months of trial and error, he’s not convinced it won’t cause more harm than good.

“Bruce, please,” Tony says again. His voice is softer, but there’s a look of determination in his eyes. “This is going to work, I know it.”

Finally, Bruce lets out a deep sigh. “We’re gonna have to take some precautions.”

**X**

“Okay this is SDP-542C,” Bruce says nervously, positioning the syringe over the kid’s IV port. “Starting with four hundred milligrams.”

Surrounding the gurney, the med team is prepped and in position. Peter is hooked up to both a heart monitor and EEG now, oxygen already flowing through a cannula under his nose. One nurse is holding a plastic bin while another holds a tray of EpiPens in the event of an allergic reaction. Nearby sits a fire extinguisher, a tub of ice, an albuterol nebulizer, and a bedpan. A doctor is holding the defibrillator paddles at the ready.

Tony gives Bruce a nod of encouragement.

Bruce shifts his gaze down to the still whimpering kid. “Peter, I’m going to give you something for the pain now. Is that okay?”

Sniffling, Peter gives him a teary nod and Bruce can see the amount of faith the kid is putting in him. He better not fuck this up.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath as he injects the drug into the IV line. “Here we go.”

The tension in the room is so thick that Bruce can barely breathe. For the next several minutes, everyone waits anxiously for some kind of reaction. At one point, Peter lets out a sob that sounds almost like a gag and the nurse thrusts the bin in front of his face, but he only shakes his head slightly.

“’M good…” he mumbles.

“How’s the pain now?” Bruce asks, knowing they’ll have to wheel him into surgery in the next few minutes regardless. “Can you rate it, one to ten?”

“Hm…” Peter breathes out. “Was a ten. Now maybe a six.”

Tony breathes out a relieved sigh and rubs the kid’s shoulder. “That’s really good, Pete,” he says quietly.

“Do you feel anything else?” Bruce questions. “Sick? Dizzy? Feverish?”

“Hm… dunno,” Peter sighs. “Feels a lot better… ’m really tired…”

Tony looks up at Bruce. “Can we give him another dose then?” he whispers, almost pleading. “Try to knock him out?”

With a sigh, Bruce checks the monitors over again. All readings indicate that Peter is still stable. “Yeah,” he agrees, picking up the second syringe. “We’ll go ahead.”

Within a minute of the second dose going in, the kid is out and being whisked away to the waiting OR.

That’s when Bruce’s legs give out and he sinks down onto the nearest bed, Tony joining him a half-second later. “Oh god...” Bruce breathes. “We did it.”

“We did it,” Tony repeats, sounding equally dazed. Then he pulls the doctor into a tight embrace. “We fucking did it. Thank you.”

**X**

Three days later, Bruce is sitting in a chair beside Peter’s hospital bed, watching as the infamous green projectile vomiting scene from The Exorcist plays on the small TV mounted to the Medbay wall.

Sitting on Peter’s opposite side, Steve snorts out a quick laugh. “Ha!”—he points at the screen—“Me.”

Peter shakes his head slowly, looking a little guilty. “I still can’t believe you went through all of that, Mr. Rogers…” Glancing over to Bruce—who is now eating the pudding cup from Peter’s lunch tray—he adds, “Or that you put him through all of that.”

“Hey, he volunteered,” Bruce says, pointing his spoon at the kid. “I wanted to call this off weeks ago, but he and Tony overruled me.” He surveys Peter’s injuries. The cuts and bruises covering the right side of the kid’s body and face are already healing nicely, but his right arm—broken in two places and encased completely in a plaster cast—will take quite a bit longer. So will his three cracked ribs and fractured hip, the latter of which is wrapped in a rigid brace just visible above the tartan blanket covering Peter’s legs. “Honestly, now, I’m really glad they did,” Bruce finishes.

“I’m glad too,” Steve agrees, smiling a bit. “It was worth it.”

Bruce nods, taking another bite of his pudding just as the possessed girl in the movie spews more vomit at the priest. Both Peter and Steve grimace at the doctor.

Before anyone can comment, the door opens and Tony reenters the room. “How’s life at the retirement village?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Can we stop with the old geezer jokes?”

Tony scoffs. “You broke your hip and you’re now watching classic movies with a hundred-and-one-year-old man and a doctor who is currently eating tapioca pudding while wearing a hand-knitted cardigan,” he deadpans. “The Bingo tournament starts at four.”

“Will you be joining us?” Bruce smirks. “You know, with your heart condition, vitamin deficiencies, and high blood pressure?”

Tony stares at him for a moment. “Fair point,” he gives in, pulling over a chair. “But I’m dealing the next round of Canasta.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, then winces and braces his good arm against his cracked ribs.

“You alright?” Tony asks, brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out. “It’s not too bad…”

Bruce checks his watch. “It’s about time for your next dose anyway.”

Peter nods, looking relieved. “Oh, good.” He pauses for a beat. “Because I was lying. It’s really starting to hurt again.”

“We know, Peter,” Bruce says with a chuckle. He reaches over to the bedside table, picks up the bottle of SDP-542D, and hands it to Steve. “You wanna do the honors?”

Steve smiles. “Gladly.” He opens it and shakes out two of the smaller dosage pills and passes them to Peter along with a small cup of water. The kid downs them gratefully.

Once finished, Peter looks up at Steve. “So, I know I keep saying it, but seriously, thank you so much for doing this.” He shifts his gaze to Tony and Bruce. “All of you.”

“I would do it again in a heartbeat,” Steve says sincerely.

Tony coughs. “Alright that’s enough sentimental crap,” he says briskly, producing a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. “Now which of you old farts is up for a rousing game of Bridge?”

**X**

After Bruce wins every round, Tony books the doctor, Steve, and himself a three-night stay at Caesars Palace. They return with two hundred thousand dollars in winnings, a black eye for Tony, and a lifetime ban from three separate casinos.

They never speak of Vegas again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bonus drabbles now added! Click on to next chapter!)


	6. Bonus Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of short drabbles expanding on certain points from the story.  
> (Drabble #3 is dedicated to CassG)

 Bonus drabbles:

  1. **Man Down Protocol**
  2. **One Sock Mystery**
  3. **Mood.**
  4. **Ready, Set, Go**
  5. **Shitty Toast**
  6. **The Irony**
  7. **Cover Story**
  8. **Captain Comatose**
  9. **Clint’s Distraction**
  10. ***2 Hours Earlier***
  11. **Sweet Revenge**
  12. **Little Steve’s Weekend Plans**
  13. **What Happens in Vegas...**
  14. **...Stays in Vegas**
  15. **Super Duper Idiots**



* * *

**1\. Man Down Protocol**

It’s been three hours since Bruce and Tony agreed to let the nauseated supersoldier head back to his own quarters following the trial of SDP-407. Now Bruce is internally kicking himself as they stride down the hall responding to FRIDAY’s alert.

“What even is a ‘Man Down protocol’?” Bruce demands as they turn the corner.

“It means someone is unconscious,” Tony answers, following along beside. “In a concerning way. Pepper had me program it in after finding me passed out in the service elevator one night.”

Hurrying through the soldier’s room, they open the ensuite door and pause. Steve is spread out on the bathroom tile, unmoving, blood trickling from a wound on his temple. The whole room reeks of acidic bile, and vomit is visible in the open toilet.

“Shit, I knew we shouldn’t have let him go so soon...” Bruce mutters, hurrying over and dropping to his knees beside the not-so-super-looking soldier.

Tony grabs a towel from the rack and tosses it down to Bruce. “Don’t beat yourself up—he didn’t look nearly this bad when he left.”

Bruce presses the towel to the cut to stem the bleeding. “Steve?” he asks, gently tapping the soldier’s cheek. “Can you open your eyes?”

Steve doesn’t respond. Tony reaches over to flush the toilet before joining the two men on the floor.

Pulling back the towel slightly, Bruce carefully prods around the cut to gauge the lump. “It doesn’t seem that bad…” He glances up and sees the bit of blood smeared on the edge of the sink. “I think he probably just passed out from dehydration and then clocked his head on the way down.”

Tony winces. “Yikes.” He shakes Steve’s shoulder a few times. “C’mon, buddy, up and at ‘em.”

Finally Steve moans, then gags. Quickly, Bruce and Tony roll the man to his side, though nothing comes up. Bruce feels terrible for putting him through this.

"We're going to have to make some changes to the observation protocol next time," Bruce mutters.

"Assuming Steve even wants to try this again…" Even Tony’s humor seems to have dried up now. He pushes himself back up to standing. “I’ll just go get an IV pole…”

* * *

**2\. One Sock Mystery**

Natasha is just leaving the gym (she never skips hula hoop day—such a good ab workout) when she catches sight of Clint, racing east down corridor 5B, clad only in Cookie Monster boxer shorts and a single white sock.

“Move! Outta the way!” Clint cries, pushing past her in his mad dash to the kitchen.

Natasha blinks at him. _Toddlers & Tiaras _ must be on a commercial break. She flips open her water bottle and takes a swig.

Fifteen seconds later, the archer reemerges from the kitchen and barrels back down the hall, this time with one large bag of ice slung over his back and another clutched in his arm. “Sorry! Coming through!” he yelps as he blows past her again.

Nat watches him disappear into his bedroom at the end of the hall and then shrugs. Definitely not the strangest thing she’s seen Barton do over the years.

Not even top ten.

* * *

**3\. Mood.**

While Bruce remains in the lab poring over the formula from SDP-416 to see what might have triggered Steve’s allergic reaction, Tony agrees to make a delivery of more calamine lotion.

When FRIDAY informs him that the soldier is in the common area, Tony expects to find Steve on the sofa, miserably scratching at his hives. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaits him.

Steve—his rash still easily visible—is curled up on the couch, his legs tucked under him and covered by a fuzzy blanket while his head rests against Pepper’s shoulder. He’s teary-eyed, shoveling down ice cream from a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Hunka Hulka Burning Fudge as a Hallmark movie plays on the room’s massive TV. Empty pizza boxes, bags of chips, and soda cans surround them. Pepper is patting his arm comfortingly.

Taking in the scene, Tony is momentarily speechless. “Are… Are you guys okay?”

Steve looks up at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. “The dog just died,” he whimpers.

Tony shifts his gaze from the quietly crying soldier up to his fiancée. Pepper shugs a bit and whispers, “He’s been a little emotional. I think it might be the drug.”

“Poor Buster!” Steve sobs. Pepper passes him a tissue and he blows his nose noisily. “I once had a dog too!”

Blinking at them, Tony sets down the bottle of lotion on the coffee table. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go let Bruce know we have another issue…” he says as he hurries back to the lab.

* * *

**4\. Ready, Set, Go**

“Are you ready?” Tony asks. He’s got one hand bracing Bruce’s arm against his chest while Tony grips the doctor’s bicep with his other hand.

“Yeah, go on,” Bruce grits out before taking a deep breath.

Tony nods. “Okay, in three, two—hold on.” He stops suddenly, releasing his grip. “You’re not gonna hulk out on me, are you?”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Just pop the damn shoulder back.”

Tony holds up his hands defensively. “Alright, alright, but just remember we’re in _your_ lab right now…”

Bruce scoffs, gesturing with his good hand at the fire damage surrounding them. “I don’t know how much worse it can get.”

“Suit yourself,” Tony says, getting back into position. “On the count of three.”

Bruce gives a tight nod.

“Three!” Tony yelps immediately, jerking the dislocated joint back into the socket. Bruce grunts sharply.

“You good?” Tony checks.

Gingerly, Bruce rolls his now relocated shoulder around a few times. “You know, actually, let’s just take the whole weekend off…”

* * *

**5\. Shitty Toast**

Steve sits in the kitchen, one elbow propped up on the table to support his head, the other wrapped around his stomach. He’s staring at the piece of dry toast on the plate in front of him as though it’s personally offended him. A small dish of applesauce sits off to the side.

Sam is standing at the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup. “Man, I knew you were white as mayonnaise, but if I had known it could get this bad, I would have gone easier on the habaneros...”

“Hmph…” Steve grunts in response. Tony’s brilliant cover story following SDP-530 was to tell everyone that Sam’s chili was to blame for Steve’s stomach problems. Given the recipe’s history, it didn’t take much to convince them.

“Can I get you anything?” Sam offers. “Water? Pepto?” His brow furrows. “Wait, does that even work on you?”

Another cramp hits and he hugs himself a bit tighter. “Don’t want drugs. Had enough drugs.”

Sam shoots the soldier a questioning look. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” Steve’s stomach growls angrily. “Gotta go,” he grunts. He quickly gets to his feet, grabbing the IV pole, and hurries out of the room.

* * *

**6\. The Irony**

Steve is asleep within five minutes of crashing on Bruce’s pull-out sofa bed, still attached to all his monitors. Happy has to head out to pick up Pepper from the airport, but he leaves an extra inhaler just in case.

Turning to Tony, Bruce offers, “Shall we just get it over with?”

Tony sighs. “If we must.”

From the lab refrigerator, Bruce locates the small glass bottle of B12 and a syringe. “Alright. Turn around.”

“Stupid iron…” Tony mutters, unbuckling his pants.

* * *

**7\. Cover Story**

His Skype meeting just having ended, Rhodey steps out of the conference room to see Steve awkwardly shuffling ahead of him down the hall toward Bruce’s lab in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his Captain America shield held in front of him.

“Hey Cap,” he greets.

The soldier whirls around, looking surprised. “Oh! Didn’t see you there—how’s it going?” he says quickly.

“I’m good,” Rhodey replies. He nods toward the shield. “What are you doing with that?”

Steve’s face flushes and his eyes dart downward. “Oh, you know, just… mission stuff…”

Rhodey chuckles at the soldier’s outfit. “I see Fury’s getting a little lax on the dress code these days, huh?”

Steve laughs—slightly higher pitched than usual. “Oh yes, well, you know…” He trails off, then coughs. “Uh, I was gonna go polish the shield, actually, so, yeah, have a good day.”

Without another word, Steve spins back around and continues shuffling away.

“Uh… you too?” Rhodey calls after him.

Life at this compound is getting stranger by the day.

* * *

**8\. Captain Comatose**

“Okay, coast is clear,” Tony whispers. The two men are watching from behind a bend in the hallway as the on-call doctor and nurse hurry off down the corridor. “Let’s move.”

Carefully, Bruce wheels the quietly squeaking chair containing the unconscious supersoldier—Steve’s entire body covered by a white sheet—into the now conveniently empty Medbay. Clint’s distraction seems to have worked like a charm.

“Where do you wanna put him?” Tony whispers.

“Suite four,” Bruce replies, pushing Steve to the furthest private room from the door. They enter and Tony immediately draws the shades closed.

“Alright, let’s get him into the bed,” Bruce says quietly.

Together, they somehow manage to haul Steve out of the chair and situate him on the hospital bed. Bruce begins hooking him up to the monitors—now including an EEG—while Tony grabs some markers and a piece of paper.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks, clipping an oximeter to Steve’s finger.

“Making a sign for the door.” Tony flips around the paper which reads in all-caps letters: ‘QUARANTINE AREA—DO NOT ENTER’. “Don’t want anyone walking in and seeing Captain Comatose, do you?”

Bruce sighs deeply. “This is so wrong on so many levels…”

* * *

**9\. Clint’s Distraction**

Several hours later, there’s a knock on the door. Startled, Bruce glances up from the Starkpad where he’s monitoring Steve’s brain activity. He shoots Tony a fearful look.

Tony turns toward the door. “Highly contagious alien substance inside!” he hollers. “Do not come in under any circumstances.”

“Dude,” Clint’s muffled voice calls back. “It’s me.”

“Oh.” Tony moves toward the door and cracks it open, allowing Clint to enter. Bruce is surprised and a little concerned when the archer comes hobbling in on crutches, his left foot in an aircast boot.

“What the fuck, Barton?” Tony hisses. He points at the boot. “What is that?”

“It’s my distraction,” Clint retorts. “I had Nat shoot me in the foot.”

“You did _what?_ ” Bruce demands, hopping up from his chair. “You got Nat involved too? We told you this had to be discreet!”

“Relax, Big Guy,” Clint placates, holding up a hand. “I didn’t tell her anything. She doesn’t ask many questions.” His face screws up in thought. “Come to think of it, it was surprisingly easy to get her to agree.”

Tony runs an exasperated hand over his face. “Barton. We just told you to call a code and then say it was a false alarm. Not _actually get shot!_ ”

Clint shrugs. “I thought it would be more believable if there was blood.” His gaze travels to Steve’s unconscious form and he grins smugly. “I see it worked—you got his ass into Medbay undetected. You’re welcome.”

Covering his face with his hands, Bruce flops back down onto his chair. “We are in so deep…”

* * *

**10\. *2 Hours Earlier***

“Hey Nat?” Clint asks, stepping into the common area.

She glances up from the novel she’s reading. “What?”

“Can you shoot me in the foot?”

She blinks at him. “Right or left?”

“Uh… left.”

From a concealed ankle holster, Natasha produces a small handgun and fires at Clint, who lets out a pained yelp as the bullet enters the side of his heel. “Good?”

“Yep,” Clint grunts as blood streams from the wound. “Perfect. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” she says, resuming her book.

* * *

**11\. Sweet Revenge**

“I can’t believe this, Tony,” Steve says reprovingly. “How could you do this to yourself?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tony mutters. Sweat is beading on his forehead and he’s trembling slightly as the Naloxone works its way through his system. “Already got this lecture from Bruce and Pepper.”

“But you _know_ how dangerous this drug is!” Steve goes on. “Of all the bone-headed, irresponsible, reckless things you’ve done, this has to take the cake. I mean—”

Without any warning, Tony leans over the edge of the hospital bed and vomits into the soldier’s lap.

Steve blinks at the bile soaking through his pants, then at the empty plastic emesis basin still sitting on Tony’s lap. “...You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Karma’s a bitch,” Tony rasps, then promptly passes out.

* * *

**12\. Little Steve’s Weekend Plans**

“Uh… Bruce?”

The doctor glances up from the Home & Garden magazine back-issue he’s been skimming for petunia planting tips to see Steve standing awkwardly in the doorway to Bruce’s room. “Yeah?”

“So, just out of curiosity… Do you still have any of the trial formulas on hand?”

Bruce frowns. “Certain ones. Why do you ask?” He takes a sip of his tea.

Steve steps further into the room and closes the door behind him. “Um… so Bucky is in town this weekend and I was just wondering… uh… do you maybe have any more SDP-537?”

Bruce chokes on the liquid. “Uhh…”

“I was thinking if I only had half a dose…” Steve glances down at the floor. “You know, it’s just, well, his stamina is…”

“Please stop talking,” Bruce cuts him off, hopping to his feet. “I’ll get the pill.”

* * *

**13\. What Happens in Vegas...**

“Tony, for the last time, I don’t gamble,” Bruce grumbles as Tony drags him by the elbow further into the casino.

Grinning broadly, Steve—now wearing glasses—is following along beside, a yardstick drink in each hand.

“But you win every game we play,” Tony protests. “I mean, that is statistically improbable. We have to put this skill to good use.”

Bruce sighs, giving Steve a wary look. “I don’t know, Tony,” he says. “We have to make sure we’re keeping an eye on him.”

“Relax! He’s having a great time,” Tony replies, gesturing to the soldier. Steve has one straw from each drink in his mouth and he’s sipping them both happily. “Right, Capsicle?”

Steve beams at him. “Did you know if you drink the mango one and pineapple one at the same time, it’s like a tropical explosion in your mouth?”

Bruce pats his jacket pocket, making certain that the inhalers are still there. He’s still not fully on board with this plan—Tony and Steve spent half the afternoon the day before they left convincing the doctor to let Steve take half a dose of SDP-532 in the hopes that the depowered supersoldier would be able to get drunk for the first time in seventy-eight years—but eventually Bruce gave in.

And that’s how Bruce finds himself following an intoxicated, asthmatic, anemic, half-blind hundred-and-one-year-old man with a heart condition along the Vegas strip, Tony Stark enthusiastically guiding them in and out of various casinos.

Jovially, Steve slings an arm around the doctor’s shoulder. “He’s right, Bruce! You need to lighten up—I haven’t felt this great in months!”

“That’s really not saying much…” Bruce mutters, recalling the trials.

“Here, let’s start small,” Tony says, pulling him over to one of the slot machines on the back wall of the casino as Steve—still sipping his drinks—wanders curiously over to the craps table. “Try this one.”

“This is just throwing money away,” Bruce complains, keeping one eye on Steve.

From his pocket, Tony produces a small stack of neatly-folded single dollar bills, which he thrusts into the doctor’s hand. “I’ll sponsor you twenty bucks,” he scoffs. “I don’t think we’re going hungry tonight.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he groans, plopping down onto the chair in front of the machine. “But statistically, the house always wins…” He inserts one dollar bill into the slot and pulls the lever.

The icons on the machine spin before his eyes. Three images of Thor’s hammer light up in a row.

Suddenly the machine starts beeping wildly and flashing lights, the word ‘WINNER’ scrolling across the screen.

“Well, shit,” Tony remarks as heads turn curiously in their direction from all around the room. “You really are just lucky…”

“Ayyy!” Steve cries from the craps table, raising his glass in the air. “I’ll drink to that!”

Bruce sighs. A few more games probably couldn’t hurt.

* * *

**14\. ...Stays in Vegas**

Winning his seventh round of roulette in a row, Bruce hops excitedly backward from the table to the cheers of the drunken onlookers, smiling broadly.

Grinning, Tony pats his friend on the back. “You have to be the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen!”

Having had a few drinks now, Bruce chuckles at him. “If only we could’ve had this luck a month ago. Spared Steve a whole lot of suffering.”

Steve wobbles up to them, a lopsided grin on his face. “’S all in the pas’ now!” he slurs. “An’ you paid me back wit’ this awesome trip!” He throws an arm around Bruce, coaxing the straw of his current drink to the doctor’s lips. “Bar’end’r called this one ‘Sex on th’ Beach’!” he says, nodding to the colorful beverage, which is sporting a pink umbrella, an orange slice, and a glow stick. “Not sure why, but ’s delicious!”

Bruce sips the drink as the croupier calls for everyone to place their bets on the next round. “All in on thirty-two!” Bruce declares, pushing forward a large stack of chips.

Given how the night has been going, Tony isn’t nearly as surprised when Bruce wins as he is when Steve throws his hands up and whoops in celebration, the soldier’s elbow colliding with Tony’s eye.

Tony yelps, bringing his hands up to the injury. “Watch where you’re swinging, Babe Ruth! I need to be able to see if I’m gonna haul your drunk asses home…”

Steve's eyes go comically wide. “Oh gosh! ’M so sorry,” he babbles.

“Yeah, yeah… just give me that.” Tony wriggles the cold glass out of Steve’s grip and holds it to his throbbing eye as a makeshift ice pack.

“Aw…” Steve sticks his lip out in a pout. “You took my Sex…”

* * *

**15\. Super Duper Idiots**

While the rest of the team is still busy with the clean-up efforts following their latest mission, Steve ducks out early and makes his way back to the Quinjet, his right arm braced against his chest to stabilize his broken clavicle.

Peter (who tripped exiting the jet and twisted his ankle, resulting in a very exasperated Tony benching the kid not even two minutes into the mission) widens his eyes. “Mr. Rogers?” He pulls the ice pack off his ankle and hops up on his good leg. “Are you guys done? Did you need any help with the clean-up? I can totally help!”

“That’s alright, Pete, I think they’re almost done,” Steve replies. Grimacing from the pain it causes, he sets his shield down and removes his gloves.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, his brow furrowing in concern. “Did you get hurt?”

“It’s no big deal,” Steve assures, wincing as he runs his fingers over his injury. “Broke my collarbone, but it should heal in a few hours.” He chuckles dryly. “The team sent me back—I’m not much use when I’m not allowed to lift more than ten pounds.”

“Oh that sucks, I’m sorry,” Peter sympathizes. “Does it hurt much?”

Steve smiles. “I’ve had far worse.”

“Because if it hurts…” From the open medkit on the seat beside the kid, Peter fishes out a familiar-looking orange bottle. Grinning, he shakes it beside his ear, causing the SDP-542D pills to rattle inside. ”...we’ve got drugs now.”

Relief washes over Steve. He breathes out a sigh, sinking down onto a seat. “We do indeed, Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> We had a lot of fun torturing Steve together over the past month! Hope you had as much fun reading it!
> 
> Please let us know your thoughts in the comments below :D
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you want: [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/) & [awesomesockes](http://awesomesockes.tumblr.com/)


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